


Meet Me in the Ether

by nni



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nni/pseuds/nni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yeah, yeah, soulmate au, you’ve read it all before, he <i>knows</i>. But he also knows you’re gonna read it <i>anyway</i>, because really, it’s different every time, you all love tropes, and you all love you some sweet, sweet Spideypool. So does he. So park it and listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all!  
> gonna start off by saying that trigger warnings will be at the beginning of every chapter, and if you need a recap or catch a trigger i didn't list, just let me know!  
> this chapter brought to you by: **semi-graphic depictions of violence!**  
>  ratings and tags will be changed as appropriate when the story progresses  
> basically this is a soulmate au, and if this specific thing has been done before, sorry! i haven't.. actually read any soulmate aus  
> i'm kind of combining all of marvel canon cos what even is it anymore, and tweaking it a little to fit the story, so.  
> sit back and enjoy the ride
> 
> edit: i can't believe there was no existing hit monkey tag, what is happening

Yeah, yeah, soulmate au, you’ve read it all before, he _knows_ . But he also knows you’re gonna read it _anyway_ , because really, it’s different every time, you all love tropes, and you all love you some sweet, sweet Spideypool. So does he. So park it and listen.

See, everyone is born with a date and time stamped somewhere on their bod. Tells you when you’re gonna meet your _soulmate_ . Even all colour-coded and shit, the entire spectrum from platonic to hardcore romance. Exciting stuff, right? Now, the multiverse, it’s a chaotic place, so nothing is really _definite_ definite, so sometimes people get a permanent date with Death (and Wade is absolutely not jealous at _all_. He’s also totally not responsible for, like, a shocking number of them), and if that person happens to have been your soulmate, you get a brand new date and time scrawled across your meatsuit. Lucky bastards.

Okay, that sounds bitter. And maybe he is, just a little bit. Hey, don’t be a judgy lil shit, he has his reasons, alright?

Because he’d had Vanessa. _God,_ Vanessa. Wade doesn’t believe in “perfect,” but if there ever was such a thing, it would’ve been her. She was gorgeous, with curves and brains in all the right places, hilarious, _amazing_ in bed, and it was like he’d told her once upon a timeline. Her crazy matched his crazy, weird curvy edges and all that. They were good together, fantastic, actually fucking happy. But, most notably, she’s gone. Like, _gone_ gone. Which, as hard as it may be to believe, is actually his fault. And with the whole always changing, cancer-Weapon-X-week-old-Mexican-pizza skin thing going on, he doesn’t even have the date as some weird, overly sentimental souvenir. Doesn’t have a new one to focus on, either, but he doesn’t really think he’d have one if he could anyway, tee-bee-aytch. If there was ever someone out there for him, it would’ve been her. Nobody deserves to be dragged into his mess, anyway.

Which is why, more often than he’d like, Wade finds himself hopping from support group to support group just for shiggles (like the guy in that one book-slash-movie that punches himself a lot, you all know the one), moving on when people start getting too _friendly_. That, or sitting on the rooftops of Mogadishu, Moscow, New York City, where-the-hell-ever, mulling over the pros and cons of letting himself slip off the edge and enjoy the ride. Like a one way drop tower, but with like a five percent better chance of instant death. Pros usually win. Which is exactly the sort of situation he’s in right now, legs swinging off the side of a high rise about five blocks out from Stark Tower and inching closer to temporary relief.

And that, dearest reader, is where his story really begins.

 

≃

 

Wade is about three-quarters off the ledge and halfway through a breathtaking rendition of _Jumper_ , taking joy in the little things, like irony and that bubbly tingle in his gut before the fall, when something warm and damp and freakishly sticky pummels his shoulder and yanks him back. It pulls at the fabric of his suit, makes the collar tug at his neck in a way that he’d probably be actively enjoying under slightly different circumstances. His back scrapes up against the unforgiving concrete as he’s hauled back, and it’s not like it can really do any damage but that doesn’t stop it from stinging _balls_ . Like papercuts, those entitled assholes. They’re barely even a _cut_ where do they get off hurting _that much_.

“Spidey!” The mess on his shoulder is putting up a decent fight, but he’s not about to lose to some glorified silly string, so as he turns to face the friendly neighbourhood asshole, he makes quick work of it with a hunting knife sheathed at his side. “What’s a nice place like you doing in a girl like me? Well, not _in_ me, not yet at least, but I’m not ruling anything out. I mean, this _is_ a fanfic, and I’m pretty sure you’re above and beyond the age of legal. Andrew Garfield is what, like, thirties?" 

There’s a second of uncharacteristic silence from both of them where Wade is pretty sure that Spider-Man is looking at him like he’s as crazy as most people say he is. “I’m not even sure I understood half those words, but I’m not sticking anything _in_ you except maybe a Tic-Tac. Seriously, do you just eat nachos and feet for every meal? Don’t answer that, I don’t wanna know, I’m just here ‘cause I saw you about to turn this high rise into a drop tower and blood’s a bitch to get out of concrete.” 

Okay, what, is one of this kid’s freaky spider powers that he can read minds or something? Wade squints and thinks things at him that would make even Weasel blush, so either that’s a no on the telepathy or spider-dude would make a killing playing poker. “Slow build, I can dig it,” he mutters, and before Spidey can make some cliched comment about his sanity, he pushes on. “Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted--”

“Sorta saved your sorry ass, Wilson.”

“--I was about to be on my way to see a man about a dog, and by that I mean I gotta see a monkey about trafficking. Drugs, people, the whole shebang, so whaddya say, Spidey-Boy, you in?”

“Hard pass,” Pete sighs, and from the tone of his voice Wade has this sneaking suspicion that he doesn’t believe a word of what he’s just said. “I gotta go, y’know, deal with some problems that actually exist, so.”

He offers him a shrug and an unsympathetic “your loss,” before turning on his heel with a salute to leg it to the far side of the roof. Why is it so hard to believe in a monkey-themed-slash-actual-monkey anti-hero? It’s like these suited types have never seen their own rogues galleries. “See ya ‘round, Petey!” He even thinks he hears a quiet, “sure, later,” before he vaults to the next building and Spidey webs off toward some old lady with her cat in a tree, or something. Yeah, sure, without the perks that come with being a certain webhead, roof jumping isn’t exactly the quickest or most convenient way to travel. But it looks cool as hell, and gives him a much better vantage point to find what he’s looking for. Plus the added bonus that maybe he’ll slip up and still get that sweet fall to freedom along the way.

It’s when the place starts to look more like Arkham City and he gets closer to the docks that Wade finds himself wondering _why it’s always the docks_. Seriously, are the (badder) bad guys at the height of their power when they’re drenched in the smell of rotting fish and vagrant piss or something? Whatever, as far as mid-boss showdown sites go, he’s seen worse. And there’s Hit-Monkey sitting at the rendezvous point on top of a stack of crates, so that train of thought dips off the rails pretty quick. If Wade knows anything about shady deals and the comic industry, that’s probably the drug portion of the trafficking haul.

He does a superhero landing from about sixty stories up, and this time only one of his kneecaps shatters with the top of the crate that gets the privilege of breaking his fall. _Ding ding ding_ , we have a winner! A metric fuck tonne of grade a premium Colombian nose clams. Which means that the trafficked and the traffickers are probably both nearby, too, and he’s willing to bet that murdering macaque knows exactly where. Probably already has, like, fifteen different plans mapped out to deal with them, too.

The problem with trying to coordinate espionage and attack with a monkey is that it’s exactly as easy as it sounds. Used to be Wade was pretty good at reading his various eeks and ooks, but it’s been a while, he’s gotten rusty. Macaque is not an easy language to master. Ugh, maybe this actually would’ve been easier if the webhead was here. It’s not that they don’t work together _ever_ , they do every once in awhile. Wade has slowly started wearing him down into believing that he’s actually trying to be a good guy, and who better to mentor him than the one superhero that actually tolerates his presence? And besides, the kid’s like a frickin’ angel. Number two on his list of personal heroes, right below Cap and his glorious, star-spangled ass. He _does_ , however, tend to shy away from the jobs that seem like they might be messy and-slash-or figments of Wade’s fucked up imagination. But between the two of them they would almost have to be able to figure out what the hell slightly-hairier Danny DeVito is saying, right? The hand gestures seem to be helping, but it’s slow going and honestly he’s getting kind of bored.

It isn’t until the grating screeches shift from mild exasperation to frantic shrieking and a hail of bullets fly past his shoulder that he really starts to think that maybe they don’t have to go to the fight after all. It seems to have found its way to them just fine. As he turns around, he’s just in time to see Bad Guy Number One level a shotgun straight at his chest. Nearly point-blank range, so unless he's quick this is gonna hurt like a _motherfucker._

Normally, Wade would tell whoever said “don't bring a knife to a gunfight” to suck a chode and laugh in their face, because he’s good with any weapon sure (or even no weapon), but blades are his joie de vivre. This time, though.. he maaaay have to reconsider. He’s quick, shotgun’s quicker. He can feel the spray punching through his chest (right again, like a _motherfucker_ ; full penetration a la buckshot is the _worst)_ just before his blade connects with the meat of Bad Guy’s neck, and they both buckle to their knees. Jugular, that guy ain’t gonna make it. But then again, neither is he. The world is going dark and kinda.. wobbly, and he has just enough time to look down at the hole the size of a bowling ball where his sternum used to be until his face eats dirty, gore-crusted asphalt. Through the blood and bits of lung he’s coughing up onto the inside of his mask, he manages to garble out a weak “oh, Canada,” before things go well and truly black and Death is tugging at the torn edges, and he lets himself slip into her grasp. Her hands are bony though, so he kinda hopes that maybe this time she’ll use lube.

 

* * *

 

Peter doesn’t freak out when he gets a new mark. Not anymore. He’d started out with a small, neat stamp, stark along the pale curve of his ribs. But after Gwen, after Mary Jane, they’d started popping up like daisies in the spring in places that aren’t Manhattan, so he kind of got used to it. It hasn’t stopped him from dating of course, and even though the initial shock has died down it’s still got this sort of undercurrent of melancholy, like this constant reminder of how many people he can’t save, but he figures it at least kind of makes sense. If he’s a superhero, then they probably are too, fallen in the line of duty. He still remembers that one time a couple years back when he got, like, five in one day. It’s a little disheartening sometimes, and a jarring reminder of how dangerous this line of work can be, but it fits, he guesses.

But one thing that he will never get over, no matter how many times he’s subjected to it, is how bad the new ones fucking _itch_ . He’s never had chickenpox, but god, this is what it must be like. Yeah, okay, at least then he knows whenever a new one’s cropped up but honestly, at this point, he’d almost rather take his chances. And of course this time it’s on his shoulder blade, that one annoying spot that even as flexible as he is he can never friggin’ reach. He’s crouched on a roof and twisted like a damn pretzel trying to get at the spot, fingertips barely brushing the edge of where he needs them to be, and he swears to _god_ that it’s just making it worse as he groans in frustration.

Which is why he’s almost grateful for the buzz of his spider sense fizzing low at the base of his skull. For the past few nights it’s been flicking on and off like a switch, even aside from the obvious incidents he’s so graciously stopped (and will still do absolutely nothing for his image in the _Bugle,_ he thinks with a roll of his eyes). He knows the signs, and he’s pretty positive he’s being followed, but he plans to put a stop to that tonight. Or at least, y’know, find out _who_ and _why_ . They’re not on the roof with him, he knows that much for sure, and spidery intuition (see: _common_ sense) is telling him that the most likely place to hide would be the alley between this building and the next.

“All right, time to _Hot Fuzz_ this shizz.” Yeah, Sherlock might have been the obvious choice there, but Peter will always have a soft spot in his heart for the one hundred percent pure comedy gold that is Simon Pegg. He lowers himself nearly flat to the roof and slinks to the edge, narrowing his eyes into the dark space below. About thirty floors down, tucked into the shadows at the opening of the alley, is the soft cherry glow of a cigarette. _Bingo_.

For as quiet and subtle as Peter is, apparently it’s not enough. Maybe whoever it was saw him inching closer, maybe they’d just filled their stalking quota to the night and were moving on to bigger and better things, but by the time he gets to the ground, the cigarette is smouldering away on the pavement and the litterbug is nowhere in sight. He checks around, of course, but nobody looks or sounds like a shady alley lurker, and the tingle at the back of his head has gone radio silent. Apparently they’d had plans for a quick getaway, which doesn’t exactly spell pleasant things for future confrontations. But whatever, it’s not like it’s a total bust. They’ve given him more than they know. Unless, of course, it’s all a part of the plan to lure him straight to them, but.. That’s a possibility he’ll have to deal with later.

“Agh, gross. Note to self: hire sidekick to handle the spit-covered parts of the job,” he mumbles to himself as he picks up the butt of the cigarette and drops it into a thin sample tube, tucking it away into a slim evidence compartment in the suit. Ahh, the sweet smell of carcinogens at midnight. There’s a ring of lipstick around the filter and the thick scent of menthol, still damp from where a tongue has pressed against the wrapping. The thought that Deadpool probably wouldn’t balk at picking up discarded tubes of nicotine briefly flutters in one ear and he pushes it right out the other. Honestly, a few days ago when the alarm bells had started ringing the first couple of times he'd thought maybe it actually was Wade on his tail, but he never misses an opportunity to make himself known if it could end in a team-up, and it was a weak theory to begin with. Anyway. Not thinking about him right now. He has actual issues to focus on here, not that faint tug of guilt for brushing off a mercenary and his ridiculous schemes.  

This little baby, disgusting as it may be, should give him all the DNA he needs to identify the real culprit behind this vaguely less creepy Edward Cullen scenario. Honestly, he’s kind of hoping this whole thing goes the secret admirer route. That would be a _lot_ easier to deal with, and, okay, maybe he wouldn’t mind the boost to his ego. Having his name dragged through the mud on a daily basis gets kinda old after a while. Especially when he’s selling his photos and soul to the very same company that spreads the slander. The plight of the millennial superhero.

He’s still got his access codes for the labs at Empire State; they call him in on projects every once in awhile, claiming that they “value his scientific genius and sharp observational skills,” but apparently not enough to actually offer him a job. But he’s not bitter. Not at all. Still though, it’d be risky going there. Too many questions, too many inquiring minds and nosey assholes poking around for him to be comfortable that his identity wouldn’t be compromised. Stark Labs, on the other hand. The Avengers understand the importance of keeping his secret, and Tony owes him more than a few favours, not to mention that the entire thing is infinitely more advanced and secure. JARVIS is sort of the digital equivalent of the Hulk, as far as impenetrable barriers go. Really, there’s no choice to be made here, so he bounces on his toes, shoots out a web and rounds a corner sharp on the upswing, making his way for the second time that night to Park Avenue and the illustrious (read: pretentious) chrome frame of Stark Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnd thanks for reading!  
> if you're enjoying this let me know, cos it's super fun to write so i plan on keeping it up regardless but if people are interested i'll be more likely to try and push it out.  
> been out of the spideypool game for a while but now i'm back in action, so. that's a thing you'll have to deal with i guess.  
> i've got some borderlands projects going on too so pop on over there if it strikes your fancy.  
> see you in the next installment!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> filibuster
> 
> or, in which the boxes make an appearance and the boys bond over hot dogs
> 
>  **edit:** just a quick fyi, chapter 3 is on the way! time's just a little short right now, but i haven't jumped ship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real trigger warnings for this chapter, i think, but please hit me up if you think it needs one!  
> the response to this fic has been so overwhelmingly positive??? thank you guys so much, it really means a lot to me <3  
> uh, first time writing the boxes so i'm kinda working out their personalities, so, apologies for that  
> anyway, it's kind of a filler chapter i guess, but the boys need some bonding time before we get into the meaty stuff, so  
> enjoy!

Waking up, if that’s what you want to call rising from the dead in a not vampirish yet still totally sexy way, is always a little weird. Takes a minute to get your sea legs, y’know? Especially if you lose something important, like a leg, or your heart and the better part of a lung. And it’s always more fun if he’s the one that caused it, anyway. Thankfully, it seems like Wade has slept through most of the healing process this time. His chest is more of a wall and less of a window again, but when he pokes around at it, the blood and forming tissue still have this weird gummy feel, like when you jam your tongue in the pit of a missing tooth. The soreness is mostly gone though, just a dull ache dissipating through him in the same way a solid punch to the ribs during a good fight sends his  _ spidey senses  _ tingling, if you know what he means. 

He means it makes his dick twitch, if that wasn’t clear.

With a groan and a deep stretch, he pulls himself up to assess the situation. Going by the dull red stains surrounding him, not even counting the one that had pooled around his body, Hit Monkey made sure those pieces of shit got what was coming to them. Not that he'd been  _ entirely _ planning on offing them, now that he's trying to walk the path of the morally justifiable, but there's a special place in hell for human traffickers, and if he'd happened to help them find it he can’t say it would've weighed too heavy on his conscience. The primate himself is nowhere to be seen, but his calling card is tucked neatly beneath the flap of one of his pouches, and Wade makes sure to stuff it the rest of the way in. Never know when he might come in handy to help further the plot. It’s light...ish out, enough that he can tell it’s well into the morning or possibly the afternoon, and grey, the heady scent of ozone blanketing the smell of Everything New York with the promise of coming rain. Seagulls are screeching overhead, disappointed that he’s woken up and ruined their chance at a tasty filet-o’-Wilson. One of the little bastards soars past to express its irritation in the form of a nice, fat glob of shit right on the tip of his boot.

“ _ Oh,  _ you feathery  _ fucksticks _ ! I should  _ end you _ for this!” Even though his voice echoes around the probably-abandoned warehouses, the offender seems utterly unfazed as he waves his gun frantically in the air, no answer but a few faint caws. He can’t really bring himself to waste the bullet on something so boring anyway, so he shoves the pistol back into its holster and deals with this situation the  _ mature _ way: pouting. Copious amounts of pouting. He’s alone on some no-name dock at the ass end of nowhere, covered in blood and bird shit, it’s a perfectly reasonable response, okay, stop giving him that  _ look _ . The dumpster makes as good a seat as any for now, so he scrapes his boot across the bottom until the shit comes off and the leather scuffs up a little more, hops on up and rubs his hands together.

“So! What’ll it be today, guys?” The good old boys in yellow and white (or, in this case, italic and bold, he guesses) never fail to brighten his day. Except literally all the time. As much fun as they are sometimes, they can be real fuckin’  _ downers _ when they wanna be, which is way more often than Wade thinks is fair. But he’s died enough for a day or two, so they should be a little less dickish than usual.

「 **Shower? Definitely thinking shower.** 」

∟ _ Yeah, we kinda smell like Al dunked her pants in Kadhi Chawal. _ ┐

「 **Mmmm, Kadhi Chawal. Ohhh,** **_chicken curry_ ** **!** 」

∟ _ Fuck me, where’s the drool emoji? You hear my stomach growling? _ ┐

「 **You don’t** **_have_ ** **a stomach.** 」

Something in several of his pouches jingles as he hops off the dumpster and fishes around for his phone. Google Maps is a  _ godsend _ for Canadian-born-Bostonians currently living in New York. “Aight, Indian takeout and a round of pocket pool in some rando’s shower. Sounds like my kinda Tuesday!”

「 **It’s Thursday. And we should probably use our own shower this time.** 」

“Fuck that, I only got one apartment in New York right now and it’s on the other side of the city.” Arms crossed and glaring pointedly at some indeterminate point above his head, Wade is the poster boy for petulant manchild. “Never had a problem shower jackin’ before. Ha! Double entendre, self-five!” He could swear he can actually hear the voices-slash-boxes-slash-stylised-text groan when his palms connect with a slap.

∟ _ Yeah, but he has a point. Our suit kinda looks like we popped a Chestburster from both sides, and all the spares are at home. _ ┐

「 **Plus this one is** **_covered_ ** **in blood and shit. Literally.**

∟ _ Kinda defeats the purpose of a shower. _ ┐

「 **And blows a hole in this weird good guy schtick you’re trying to pull.** 」

He hates to admit it, but they’re kind of right. His rockin’ bod might’ve healed, but his suit doesn’t have the same power, and there’s barely a few threads keeping it in one piece. In a dramatic gesture of defeat, most of his upper body slumps with the droop of his shoulders, and he puffs a long, loud sigh that’s just teetering the line of whining. Okay, it is whining. Plain and simple. He doesn’t like it when they’re right, okay? Especially when it involves this much  _ walking _ . It’s times like these that he’s kicking himself (or, actually, the writers) for getting rid of his teleporter. Like, what fucking genius thought that was a good idea? He can’t be _ lieve _ has has to  _ walk _ with his own two feet.

Whatever, he’s dealt with worse, and the walk is good cardio for his new heart, or something? Sure, why not. So, it’s a trek halfway across the island and one  _ very satisfying _ shower later, as he’s hauling his happy, clean-suited ass to his favourite Chinese buffet (yes he knows he said Indian, but a guy’s allowed to change his mind, huh) that he spies with his little eyes everybody’s favourite arachnid, crouched on the roof a few buildings away. 

“Well, boys, looks like we just found a way to spice up this Monday night!”

「 **Still Thursday.** 」

“Suck a cock,” is his only cheery reply as he skips his merry way over to Spidey’s tower.

 

* * *

 

“Inconclusive?” Peter raises an incredulous brow. Not that it does any good; he wouldn’t be caught dead entering the Avengers headquarters outside the costume, so the full effect is kind of hindered by the mask. Still, it’s reflex. “You’ve got the best tech in the country- probably on the  _ planet _ \- and you’re telling me a basic DNA test came back inconclusive.”

Stark shrugs unapologetically, arms folded and a look on his face like this is the least interesting thing to cross his path in the past seventy-two hours he’s spent awake. Considering the kinds of things he deals with on a daily basis, that’s probably a fair assessment. DNA identification is, comparatively, a simple task, probably buried deep in the barest bones of JARVIS’ programming. This should’ve been a quick in-n-out, “thanks for the info, I’ve got an ass to kick” sort of situation, so it’s maybe a little justifiable if Peter is kind of annoyed that he doesn’t know any more than the night before.

“Look, kid,” he says, and leans forward to rest his elbows on the table as he rubs at the corners of his eyes, along the bridge of his nose, and the deep purple settled into the skin there is probably even darker than Peter’s own. “There was no exact match. The DNA’s been-- it’s, it’s warped, some kinda mutation or radiation or some new party drug, hell if I know, didn’t look close enough. Point is,” and here he points at Peter for emphasis and possibly some sort of weird middle-aged-man humour before grabbing his quickly cooling coffee, “I’ll get you your damn name, it’s just gonna take a little more  _ time _ .” 

Mussing up your hair in frustration is a lot easier when your head isn’t covered in spandex, so Peter settles for scratching at the mask instead. “So how long is it gonna take, exactly?”

Tony is in the middle of a sip-- swig-- okay, a gulp of coffee, but he waves the question off dismissively before he swallows and says “Not long, I have your number,” swiveling his chair around and getting back to work. Trying to get anything more out of him at this point is a lost cause, and Pete would rather not be around if he up and keels over from sleep deprivation or an overdose of caffeine or whatever the hell is keeping him awake, so he mumbles his goodbyes, tosses a salute to JARVIS, and takes his leave.

It’s not quite the time he’d normally be swinging around the city yet, but he’s already out and suited up, and it’s not like crime really has a schedule (that would make things way too easy, and the gods decided long ago that nothing could ever be easy for Peter Parker), so he might as well get an early start. He’s barely had time to settle down on a roof with a decent view, where he can work on some personal projects while he waits for his spidey sense to kick in or the bite-sized police scanner tucked beside the ear of his mask to alert him of some nefarious activity or other before he hears him.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel! Let down your web!” 

He looks over the edge, and if he squints and tilts his head just right he can make out the unmistakable red and black smudge of Deadpool on the sidewalk below. Most of the others- the Avengers, Fantastic Four, X-Men, y’know, all those teams that want nothing to do with him- tell him that he should stay far the fuck away from the Merc with a Mouth. And they’re probably right, he knows it, but, he also knows that Wade is the only one that talks more than him. The only one that shares his weird, offbeat sense of humour, with the possible exception of Johnny, but even he doesn’t appreciate some of the finer points of Peter’s comedic genius. So, like he’s been doing more and more these days, he says  _ fuck it _ . But of course he’s going to be an ass about it, he  _ has  _ to be. He reaches into the backpack he’d taken to Stark Tower, pulls out a pen and paper to scribble something down, and lowers a web to Wade with a lovely little note that reads, simply, “piss off :3”. The laugh that gets him is more of a cackle really, loud enough that he can hear it even before he starts tugging him up the facade. Wade kicks his feet and sort of lunges the last yard or so up and wriggles until he’s situated next to Spidey, elbowing him in the ribs when he pretends to shove him off.

“C’mon, Spidey, I know you better than that! Blood is a bitch to get out of concrete, remember?” he says, but grips the edge and leans forward, looking down like he might take the plunge himself. After a few seconds and a comment that’s more than likely to himself, something so quiet Peter’s not even sure if he’s heard anything, his attention returns. “So! Loop me in, odd one. What’s the sitch today? Robbery? Mobbery? Animal-themed villain from that zoo you call a rogues gallery?”

Peter snorts and draws his feet up onto the ledge, folds his arms on top of his knees. “I think I’m being chased by a psychiatrist.”

“It happens,” comes the easy reply, and he can’t help but feel that everything that’s happened in Wade’s life so far has led up to this moment, come together to make this incredible reference possible. It takes a beat before the gears start turning and it really kicks in, and Wade’s head starts darting like he’s front and centre at Wimbledon. “Wait, like, for realsies? You got a stalker, Spidey? They follow you here?” 

“Yes stalker, no, not here,” Peter tells him, and he can’t hide the chuckle that carries in his voice or the slight shrug of his shoulders. Being tailed, for better or worse, isn’t exactly unheard of in the life of a hero. Vigilante. Public menace. Whatever the news is calling him these days; he tries not to think about it. “Been quiet tonight, laying low. I don’t wanna make a move until I’ve got more intel, but I think they know I’m onto--” he breaks off, hand coming up to rest against the scanner buzzing softly in his ear. “Armed robbery, about eight blocks over. You comin’ with?”

Wade practically lights up at the chance to work together; seriously, Peter could swear he’s almost  _ glowing _ . “You bet your sweet, perky ass I am! But first, lemme take a selfie,” he says, and any comment Peter might’ve had jumps from his throat as a surprised squawk and a muffled “oh, fer--” as an arm finds its way around his neck, pulling him back. The back of his head bumps against Wade’s shoulder, hands grabbing at the arm around his neck, while Wade chucks the deuce up with one hand and snaps a photo on a sleek black phone (complete with a dainty pink bow cutting across the corner) at arm’s length with the other.

Once it seems like their little photo op is over, he wriggles out of Wade’s grasp and leans over the edge, ready to go. “You good? Can we, y’know, go nab the baddies now or do you wanna slap a filter on there first? Don’t pretend you don’t know I’ve seen your Insta.”

It’s a much softer laugh this time, but still there, weirdly fond, and Peter’s not really sure if he’s meant to be in on whatever moment Wade is having until he actually speaks. “Yeah, yeah, fuckin’ nerd. C’mon, let’s go kick us some bank robbin’ booty! They are bank robbers right? It’s always bank robbers when they’re not the Big Bad, makes it easier for the readers to focus on other stuff,” but whatever nonsense he’s going on about fades off as he clambers down the building, and Spidey lets himself dip into a freefall, webbing off towards the fray.

 

≃

 

The fight doesn’t take long; the guys are amateurs at best, and between Wade’s training and Peter’s intuition, even the occasional competent burglar barely stands a chance. The sky has opened up by the time the perps are webbed up with the cops on their way, heavy drops of rain splashing against the sidewalk and soaking through their suits. Still, Wade insists on food (Thai, with a quick, definitive change of heart in favour of hot dogs when Peter asserts his disbelief of the term “ _ gourmet hot dog _ ”), but Peter would rather not eat a soggy dinner, so they come to an agreement. Bag the ‘dogs and meet on this roof he knows of, a favourite spot of his with a cozy little lean-to and a fantastic view of the Hudson.

Which is where he sits now, food arranged on a crate he’s turned over as a makeshift table, and trying to tamp down his laughter as he hears Wade, grunting in effort a few feet below the top. Maybe he should feel a little bad, not giving him a hand up, but it’s not his fault. He’d  _ offered _ the help, but Wade had scoffed and claimed offense at Peter’s lack of faith in his physical prowess. So, naturally, he’d had to defend his honour. It’s right about when Peter is starting to think that if he isn’t up here within the next thirty seconds he’s starting without him, courtesy be damned, that Wade hauls himself over the edge and growls out “Maximum! Effort!” 

“Took you long enough,” he says, and tosses him a hot dog, fully loaded, surprised at just how quick Wade’s reflexes actually are when he manages to catch it. “Thought I might have to eat enough for the both of us.” His mask is pushed up just enough for him to eat, past his nose to escape that dense, claustrophobic feeling of soaking wet spandex and let him breathe, and he takes another bite.

Wade follows suit, mask already up and mouth full as he slips his phone from one of the pouches on his belt. Texting from the look of it; probably this Weasel guy he’s always talking about, since that’s the only person he’s ever mentioned texting and, apparently, his, uh.. agent, of sorts. The way Wade tells it, all his jobs filter through Weasel before he even takes a look. “Ain’t nobody eats my food and gets away with it. Not even you, wonder boy.” He brandishes his phone like it’s a knife, like Peter should actually be worried even if it  _ was _ a knife, which he’s not. Not really, not anymore. He trusts his instincts, and Wade may be unpredictable, but he’s proven more and more lately that he’s at least trying to break his firm foothold in the realm of chaotic neutral.  

“Uh huh, sure, whatever you say. Wouldn’t eat that biohazard you call food anyway. Kinda scared to even ask what’s in your fridge.” With one more oversized bite, he polishes off his first hot dog, kicking at Wade’s hip. It’s barely even a blow at all, especially for how much strength he could put behind it, but Wilson of course, the drama queen that he is, gasps and feigns bowling over to the side. “Hey,” he starts, and jabs his toes into Wade’s side while he’s down for good measure. “Lemme see that picture you took.” His head nods towards the phone, fingers wiggling and palm up. 

“Ohhh, gonna save it to the mental spankbank? I can’t blame you, we do look damn good in the suits,” Wade snickers, and relinquishes his phone as he pulls himself upright, reaching for another hot dog. This one has some ungodly combination of condiments, some Peter didn’t even know the vendors offered until he’d seen the guy pile ‘em on with his own wide eyes. 

He rolls his eyes as he snatches the Samsung, swiping his thumb across the screen and pressing the button to unlock it. “You wish. What’s your unlock code?” And he swears he’s going to get eye strain at this rate, because how else is he supposed to react when the answer is “6969”? When he flicks through the apps and gets to the gallery, the photographer in him  _ cringes.  _ But if he puts aside that overly critical eye and looks at it for what it is, it’s not a bad picture, he supposes. Their signature reds pop against the pale grey of the sky, and Wade’s bafflingly expressive mask looks genuinely happy. It only takes a moment of indecision before Peter’s grinning and texting himself the picture. His own phone buzzes across the crate, and the eyes of Wade’s mask narrow, glancing from his phone to Peter’s and back as realisation seems to sink in.

“Ohmygod, wait, did I just score Spidey’s digits? No, yeah, we--  _ I _ totally did, you losers had nothing to do with it.  _ Tight _ !” His hand shoots up, pinky out, and Peter just smirks wider and curls his own finger around it, letting his hand dip down with Wade’s.

“You abuse that power and I’m tossing you off the Chrysler.” He saves his number as Spidey before tossing the phone back, although it’s probably a futile effort. Before the night is out, it’ll probably be changed to one of the thousand nicknames Wade is always calling him, and knowing his luck, he’ll probably pick the most embarrassing. At least it’s not like anyone else is gonna see it, right?

  
“So,” Wade purrs, and sidles closer. Despite the media’s (and apparently Wade’s) best attempts to convince the general public otherwise, there really is no sexy way to eat a hot dog, vague phallic shape be damned. But Peter’s used to this, this weird friendly-flirtation thing that he does. “Should I expect some hardcore texting? Sexting?  _ Dick pics _ ? Always gotta wonder what’s under the super suits, y’know? I bet Cap is  _ really _ packin’ some heat. Not that I’m doubting your  _ assets,  _ Sp-” Peter kicks him again, hard enough this time that he does topple over, shaking with loud peals of laughter as his back hits the roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there you have it, folks!  
> annnd new game from here on out: crisp high fives will be given if you recognise any of my inane references  
> hope you had a good ride, tune in next time!


End file.
